Of Fallen Angels and Dead God's
by balita
Summary: One-shot (possibly more) Spike is dead, and now isolated Faye has become a little playmate for Vicious.
1. Default Chapter

**Hiya everyone! Sigh yes, yes I know I'm supposed to be updating something right now…but don't worry it's coming all in due time… But alas this little thing floated around in my head until I put it on paper the damn thing wouldn't leave me alone :P**

**Same disclaimer as all the rest: I don't own anything but the plot**

**Please READ, REVIEW, and ENJOY! **

**Of Fallen Angels and Dead God's**

It is said that Lucifer was the most beautiful of angels ever created; he was second only to his creator. He radiated greatness, elegance and a sort of magnificence that the ethereal beings themselves were probably envious of. Just a simple step and he fashioned the most majestic forms of a harmony, too perfect to let any mere human listen to. In fact he was practically perfect, except he had this one tiny flaw. Just like Vicious. In fact Faye Valentine had already determined that this man was the reincarnated version of the Devil himself, slithering through the masses attempting to capture each and every soul. Sometimes she wondered if he could still make that music, that euphoric sound that he had been attributed. And when she heard it she thought it was best not to doubt his abilities because the song came from her mouth.

It curled through one's veins suffocating the oxygen being carried through ones blood, holding it in a suspended state of horror. It scraped itself along the walls of her cage forming a sickening screeching noise that flooded ones ears with a sense of nausea, wanting to dispel what it had formerly consumed. Wanting to spit all of the putrid mess back out. And that bloodcurdling scream rattled across her iron shackles, tinkling them, like nails across a blackboard. Faye was sure all of hell was rejoicing.

And if Vicious was the Devil, then Spike Spiegel—that blasted cowboy—was a god come down to earth. Not that she was being blasphemous or anything but honestly one man could not have captured her heart with such intensity and be a human being, she was certain of it. But he had a flaw too, god didn't have flaws, therefore he must have been a lowly creature, just like her. You see that condemnable man had failed in achieving his goal when he went on his suicide trip, which was: kill Vicious.

Instead the bastard left her all alone, only Jet to keep her company, no Ed, no Spike just Jet, and Jet —whoever was up there laughing at her better bless his poor soul or she would see that they would rot with Vicious in hell— just wasn't enough. After some time, however long that may have been, they had drifted apart the other occupants not there, their glue just frittered away becoming just a distant memory a mist of waterfall, letting them know that once upon a time they had been apart of that. Apart of that blissful rush, but no more, if they attempted that once more they would be killed. Pounded into a state of evanescence. Being so, they separated but remained in contact, through communicators, both having the ever pressing need to look after one another. Come to think of it he hadn't attempted any sort of communication with her in a while.

She was wondering why she was thinking of all this nonsense when there was a searing sort of agony ripping through her back dizzying her vision and tearing through her bones. It was so she could ignore the pain; ignore the numb feeling trying to consume her mind, attempting to render her unconscious. Of course Vicious looked after that while he was decorating her back, every line that split the skin between her shoulder blades, was like an alarm clock that cruelly jarred her mind to an alert state, a smirk planted on the pains face as it became her personal lifeline, always keeping her thriving. Away from the comforting darkness.

She glanced around the room when yet another racking scream left her body. It wasn't frightening place, there was no bricked dungeon rotting away in the basement of a castle look, no lonely bared window vaguely shooting through the blinding light that would have aggravated her senses. Just a holding cell, a basic prison sans the bed, clean, gray and minimalistic. Plain yet intimidating, it held shackles. They held her there, held her in the satanic angel's arms, while he cradled her like a musical instrument that harmonizing for him.

Burning sensations ran within her, making the skin at its origin hiss, its own melodies slinking through the air, she could almost hear Vicious' ecstasy through that sound. And when he had finished he made a point (literally) of making it particularly excruciating, the flashing blade he was using digging through skin, seeking blood, deeper still it went, and Faye wondered sorrowfully if he wanted her bone marrow. Like a lamenting surge of wind the air in her lungs ruptured pouring out past her bruised lips, the music was making its crescendo and Faye wished it would stop, but the harmonies poured through her again, because Vicious was just starting.

She was curious to know how he found her; she had after all made herself virtually invisible. She had hardly went out for groceries and when she did they were bought in bulk and she'd just hibernate at her little apartment, which actually looked a lot like this cell. She would have shivered if her body was being torn apart. She had a job too, avoiding the casinos and bars where she was sure to get herself in trouble, she worked at a café as a waitress, it wasn't a high class job but it paid the bills and bought her food and the ever needy cigarettes. Jet had sort of found the job for her; he had never really given up being the over-protective motherly type, especially now that Spike was gone…

Vicious had struck a bone that partly made up her spinal cord, she was sure of it. Her body tingled violently, and she arched away from the knife only to find in doing so that she was drawing it deeper. She felt Vicious exhale a satisfied puff of air, and it coursed down the engravings on her back. She didn't even realize when she had been twisted to face the wall, she only acknowledged every patterned incision…she had to think of something else.

Her mind searched as the tears from persecution and perspiration from her fear permeated through her skin. Her voice let out another countless strangled cry and she could almost hear Vicious grin, some angel he was. _Julia_, the name was whispered to her, as if her mind was afraid of proclaiming it loudly in case she'd have a full fledged mental breakdown or something. It wasn't going to happen of course because she didn't hate Julia anymore, she was just unbelievably jealous. She had taken the heart of the only man she could truly remember loving, and left it for no one else. Not a portion, not even a microscopic spot available, it was all gone. Stupid bitch. It all belonged to Julia, and oddly Vicious too. Hell it had been whisked away by his past, the little fairytale land that he had been living in before he came to reside on Bebop. And _he_ said that life was all a dream, well it had been before the whole tragedy with Julia and Vicious and the syndicate had happened. The lunkhead was always a dreamer, he didn't realize that in order for reality to exist there had to be sorrow. Faye had figured out that a long time ago.

Vicious was finishing up now, she could feel it, there was an excited air about him that ruffled against her neck making her body stand on edge she was terrified about what he'd do after. And then she noticed for the first time that she still had her clothes on except the back of her shirt had been torn in half but it draped around her arms keeping her front protected. She was thankful for this because it meant (hopefully) that he wasn't going to molest her or rape her. She gave her last howl it had hit the highest note yet, sweet and sickeningly cold. She played the part of a musical instrument well. So well that she frightened that he might take up practicing with her, instead of it being a one time thing.

Hearing a snap she glanced up he was wearing a pair of latex gloves, he had taken them from the medical kit that had somehow found its way inside the prison. Was he about to stitch her back up? She watched, cowering against, as he dragged the tip of his finger across the blade that was coated with the crimson liquid, she shuddered at the sight. Her blood, it was oozing its way down her back until she was sure that her every pore on her back had sucked it up greedily, and she felt it trickle down to her pants making sure to leave it imprint there.

Vicious' finger that held the blood off the blade and dragged it through the substance that coated her back, swirling the finger around almost as if he was trying to massage the pain away with one digit. It only increased and she gritted her teeth to stop the roar that rumbled in the back of her throat. That appendage that was filled with blood dipped into his mouth and he let out a contemplative yet needy sigh. The sound made Faye's head reel and her stomach churned threatening to release its contents all over the floor. His finger slick with traces of blood and saliva returned to back to collect more of her life's substance.

The finger slid through the fine hairs on her back, and over the raised pores, the pain of it all shooting through once more. He kneeled in front of her and with the same finger painted the red fluid on her lips, making it a substitute lipstick. The smell of blood filled her senses and made her lightheaded, she detested the smell, and she felt as his body covered by a rough silky fabric weighed down on her causing her back to leave garnet coloured imprints in the wall behind her. He leaned down to her ear, "Lick it," he commanded the baritone voice and the frosty air of his mouth blowing some strands of hair off her neck. Her eyes widened and verdure orbs connected with chilling blue. Under that taunting gaze she felt her heart return back to its cryogenic state, her life force stilling in all its actions.

Her jaw remained clenched immobile and her tongue stood still, her mouth just wouldn't move, she was not going to allow it. Vicious' eyes didn't glaze over with anger at her defiance as she expected it to; the man was purely unpredictable, so instead he simply placed his pallid lips against her deep vermillion ones and consumed the blood himself, his own tongue working on her supple lips. Her breath hitched and her body retched at that act, she hated it, because his very essence was repulsive and the fact that he wasn't abusive in doing so confused her. He was supposed to be a torturer, supposed to be hurtful in everything that he did to his "torturee". The kiss was gentle, and caring, as if he was her lover instead of the man that sliced through her body just a few minutes ago. She had once imagined Spike kissing her like that, and she loathed Vicious for taking that hope, that one pleasant thought from her. Her mind registered it abhorredly, now when a kiss of such _kindness_ was given to her she would remember him. She'd remember her screams and his grin; she'd remember the pain, the dividing of skin. The bastard wasn't raping her physically but he was violating her memory, every time that sort of pleasantry was given to her she'd remember what she so desperately wanted to claw away. He was imprinting himself onto her; he was owning her now, in more ways than one.

His eyes remained focused on hers forever the biting ice that they had been before. Not even a hint of warmth left, and Faye for some odd reason speculated at where it all could have gone. Maybe he was born without any, she mused eyes narrowing. If she had the power to talk, moreover yell at him, she would have done so. However all the spunk she so prided herself on was seeping out of her back, rendering her weak, defenseless, _feeble_, things that she had promised herself she would never be. Weakness never got her anywhere, and resignedly she stared as he stalked back over to the kit and walked towards her with a bottle and gauze wraps and scissors. If only she wasn't so tired…and if she wasn't hurting so much she would have at the least twisted her face into a scowl.

Vicious knelt in front of her and cut a long piece of milk coloured gauze, he folded it a few times before he inclined into her and cooed out in her ear like he did previously, "We can't have you bleeding all over the floor Ms.Valentine." She despised that voice, she thought as it painted itself permanently in her mind, making certain that she would never forget it. And with that he brutally rubbed the material up her back and her voice cracked at the feeling. He had wiped up all the freely rushing and hardening blood from her back and he threw the now useless piece to the side. He poured the clear liquid onto a fresh, equally large section and started from the bottom of his cuts and slowly—almost lethargically—as he watched, with a giddy mocking expression on his face, as she screamed. If Faye hadn't been so exhausted she would have noted horridly what the liquid actually was: alcohol. It scorched her senses into a state of revival and she was sure her shriek could be heard throughout the whole building. Vicious just chuckled and did it again and again. The process was repeated so many times that she was sure her skin had been burned raw. He ended the cruel cauterization of her wounds and lifting her shirt wrapped the remaining gauze around her.

But the man wasn't finished with her yet, he _did_ have to leave a lasting impression. Caressing her face he started there, he wasn't going to rape her, his ethics (whatever ones he had left) refused to let him do so. Besides he thought the fact that he had to forcefully bed a woman to relieve any sort of tension was disgusting, he was simply going to touch her. Softly, lovingly, until his fingers were embedded into her memory. Making sure that every spot of flesh was his So that when a man did this exact thing towards her, she would remember him mapping out her body and she would refuse to continue. He would do this until he memorized every fold of cloth covered skin like the back of his hand. She was going to be his, his new virgin flower that would cower away from a good, decent man because she had him. She would always have him; he'd make sure of that. She wasn't like Julia, the stupid woman had run into the arms of his best friend, the silly little slut thought she could escape him, evade him like he was an idiot and wouldn't notice a thing. She ended up dead, because that is the price that a slave got for running away from its master. But Faye would be more than a slave, she'd be a messenger and she'd be his lover, he was sure of that too. And he giggled.

Faye in the midst of blacking out from Vicious' soothing, hauntingly merciless stokes and the unbearable suffering her body endured, felt her blood run cold at that sound. Nope, she knew that she'd never be rid of him, this devil that had once been an angel.

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When Faye had been reawakened she made sure she put up a fight. She was like a little mutt: all bark and not a single bite; besides what effect could she have on Vicious and his string of annoying syndicate goons? Absolutely none, she knew this, but she was never one to be submissive. "Ms. Valentine you seem excitable today," his voiced slewed as his tone grew happy. Today would be _fun_.

"So what if I am Vicious?" she spat glaring at him, Vicious loved a challenge, and the blood they pumped through her seemed to be bringing her back to her normal physical state resurrecting her spirit too. Dear God, he was going to have the time of his life breaking her. His smile, that sadistic quirk of lips just grew.

He turned towards her a ghost of a stroke fluttered down her cheek, "It means Ms.Valentine that today we're going to have a _very_ interesting day." The feeling across her cheek was icy momentarily stilling the heat she felt, '_No_,' his mind whispered almost dejectedly seeing her sudden lack of enthusiasm, '_don't disappoint me_…' Vicious hated to be disappointed; countless victims had suffered because Vicious was 'disappointed'. Then she scowled and a few seconds after registering the freezing digits and she flinched, her head turning away from it. He smiled—no smirked at that action, leaving Faye to wonder if there had once been something pleasant in those lips, something worth loving, something that had been once upon a time.

"And what does _that_ mean?" she snarled, feeling the need to act like an infuriated dog as if she could fight back with the same amount of ferocious strength as the man standing in front of her. If she wasn't still chained, in this disgusting prison, and had that cursed man standing in front of her she would have laughed at herself and her thought process…or the lack of one.

"It means that I'm going undo those chains and then we get to play until you are exhausted, because I have a special treat for you…" he was still smirking, and he didn't care that he sounded as if he was talking to a five year old about to engage in a game of tag, because his mind still hadn't lost it's high from her terrific practice session a few days ago, he delighted in just how marvelous the music she made was. She had an practically picturesque scream, and he wanted to hear it again.

"Well then hurry up so I beat the shit out of you, you bastard!" Dammit. Her mouth had a talent for speeding through a retort before it was properly thought through. It was one of the reasons she won against her battles with Spike, and why they started in the first place. Why they _were_ started. Past tense, because Spike was dead, remember Faye? Oh yeah, that was why she was left to spend some quality time with Vicious over there. She just hoped that such bonding days would end today, just finish abruptly, _expire_ like all those damn cash cards. She despised those things from time to time.

Then her mind recognized something, he was laughing. At her, at her statement she really didn't care, it was just well…the sound. It was, was…odd. Yes that was precisely it, odd. The laugh was a strange mix of cruelty and sincerity like there was something deeper hidden underneath the layer of ruthlessness that few ever got to witness. As if his former angelic tendencies were trying to shine through, because old habits die hard. "Well Ms.Valentine," he started kneeling down in front of her, "that sounds so enticing. How can I pass such an offer up?" With ruffle of cloth and the clinking of metal she was released her wrists burning hatefully, and Vicious passed his fingers against their heat. He noticed the vibration of her shudder and his grin just grew wider. He was _definitely_ going to enjoy this.

She hated it when he touched her, the cold tingle of rough flesh meeting her scorching skin. The touch there was something strange about it, hell there was something 'strange' about this man, but that touch…it was exactly like his laugh. The bitter cold of his skin left an echo of heat, like there had been something once. Something that thrived through and through even though he was trying to kill it, suffocate it with the newfound chill of his own heart. But whatever it was was relentless, fighting back with unseen passion and it showed. This fact just made the man so much more haunting, knowing that he was fighting against his own humanity. And winning. There was something else too, unfortunately she couldn't place it, and wouldn't be able to for a long time. Perhaps until the end.

Suddenly she was standing up, she didn't even know how it happened but there she was, lunging herself at the man in front of her. Her mind led her in a series of spins and kicks and punches, every attack that she could make was launching itself at Vicious. She didn't even seem to mind the pain that was shooting its way to every part of her body, or the fact that she was loosing a lot of blood. All she acknowledged was Vicious' laugh; it had lost any of its lingering touch, it was empty now. Empty and ferocious. The hollow sound stemmed from different points around the room, egging her on driving her further to frustration.

She couldn't even hit him. Not twice, not even once. Never, it was simply impossible as he sped all across the room in a dizzying dance. She could feel herself weaken and this only drove her determination further. She not only wanted to hit him now, she _needed_ to. If only to prove a point, whether to herself or him she didn't know and for the billionth time didn't care her whole mindset however was focused on his face. She wanted to pound the smug look he wore into oblivion she wanted to make him choke on his never ending series of chuckles, because he was practically making fun of her. She despised him even more because of that.

Without warning he was a flurry of action, quickly grabbing her wrists and stilling her mid air punches he almost literally slammed her into the wall that held her shackles and she bit back a cry that had formed in her larynx, her suffering was about to begin again she thought disdainfully. Her eyes were threatening to spill its own liquid crystal, but she refused to succumb, she would retain every ounce of dignity she had left in her being. A lot of good that would do her…

"Ms.Valentine you're bleeding all over my floor again…" he whispered to her almost sounding exasperated, his breath smelled of cigarettes and something else, something sinister. Not putrid, or revolting, just _ominous_ and it made her stomach churn all the same.

She glanced behind him to see what he was talking about. True enough she could see dark splatters of liquid forming a pattern. Tracing the random path that she had taken to seek out Vicious. She nearly sneered at him and at the sight, but as of that moment she was a little too frightened of the man that held her to do anything of the sort. "Now what should I do about that?"

"You could clean it," she hissed through clenched teeth, wincing at the throbbing ache of her back.

"Or I can make you eat it off the floor," he suggested more to himself than to her. He loved the idea, forcing her on her hands and knees, while a sickened Miss Faye Valentine, would have to devour her own blood. He would enjoy her little spectacle, and make sure that every spot had disappeared into her stomach. She would become some inanimate object just then—like a mop. His own personal cleaning service. And she better not dear to spew it out, because the cleaning utensil would have to do its duty all over again… "Yes. Ms.Valentine on your hands and knees," he commanded.

"What?" Was this man serious, frosted eyes conveyed no feeling, they were empty, she was afraid of those eyes. If your eyes were the window to your soul, than where was his? Had it inadvertently been lost along the way? Had his past and environment played an intricate part in why he…lacked empathy, or was he just a natural born sociopath? She really should be scared of such knowledge, and as she was pushed to all fours and her face was forcefully lowered to the cement, the cranberry pool staring at her looked anything but inviting. Her mouth found itself mentally wired shut, she was never going to lick that putrid mess, what the hell did he think she was anyways? The janitor?

His head dipped down to her level as he encircled her neck firmly with pale hands, the cold skin stretching across her warmth. "Tsk, tsk Ms.Valentine. If you don't clean up your silly little mess, I'll make sure that you can't walk straight for a month." Well, that sounded…_pleasant_. Plus, the fact was just _such_ a gentleman for giving her _such wonderful_ options; good men would hard to come by these days. There was a definite mass shortage of them, no, really.

She realized wretchedly that she was shaking, actually trembling as if there was a live and brutal earthquake mercilessly pounding through her. And if she didn't starting eating her dinner that wouldn't be the only thing. His ethics…or whatever had held him back the first time wouldn't have any hold on him this time, oh sure she didn't think he'd enjoy it that much but he wanted to punish her, to break her spirit, despite all the unwanted procedures he'd have to endure.

The blood's colour swirled menacingly up at her, grinning, as she was left to a decision: to eat, or not to eat. If you don't eat you get raped, she reminded herself. She wanted to condemn the man that was breathing ever so lightly in her ear, just a dust of wind, and if he had been someone else she would have cherished it; right then she wanted it to end. All of a sudden bang! Presto the demon and his aggravating lackeys would cease to exist, all beings ploughed back down to hell from whence they came. It wouldn't happen and the number one reason for this was the subject that Vicious decided to address. "Spike would have been a convenience for you right now," he drawled, air swooshing over her face cruelly.

She was about to say something, something biting but it was at that moment Vicious—with his impeccable sense of timing—chose to cram her face down into the vermillion coloured liquid. She gagged, and she felt her throat contract, but that 'pre-puking' feeling filled her. She hated that man, and if he let her go—something she doubted was going to happen; he'd probably get bored of screwing around and chop her to itty-bitty pieces with that ferocious looking katana—she'd recuperate then stalk him and blow him to bits with her trusty gun. Of course she'd have to remain alive, and that would mean "cleaning up her silly little mess", as Vicious said. Tugging her violet coloured evilly, he pulled her up by the hair and sneered something in her ear. She would have listened—giving him her undivided attention—except there was a ripping pain in her stomach. No wait, burning its way _through_ her stomach. _Holy shit_. No seriously, she thought she was dying and the white light that flashed before her eyes was a flap of angel wings, as she approached the pearly gates. The scream that erupted from her was better than any of the others she had ever expelled. She was a fine tuned instrument as of now, a good little play-thing, and she would hate to think what Vicious' avidly creative mind would think of next.

She looked down at herself, she grimly glimpsed down to where all of numbing agony originated. Fuck, Vicious was trying to burn her alive, _slowly_, bit by bit until there was nothing left other than ashy, blackened lump of skin rotting away. Then he would miraculously revive her and try to coax a steady stream of howls that would have shattered bulletproof windows if they had been given the chance. And he'd succeed, with the shrieks I mean, this man was incredibly intelligent and just as easy as he could take a life, he could simply find a way to retain it, to keep it thriving for a bit longer, until it did what he wanted. What exactly did this man want with her anyways? It wasn't like needed her to survive or anything, she was just one of those people he sought out, a tad bit randomly, in order to torture. Then again that seemed somewhat silly, but she, for the limited time she spent with this man, wouldn't put such corrupted and inhumane behavior past him.

Suddenly she thought of something, the prospect was so alarming that she nearly expelled her food in the blood that her tongue was currently lapping. It was repulsive really, perhaps even more repulsive than the activity she was presently participating in. Maybe this was the exact reason that Jet hadn't contacted her in a while because…because…oh God, she couldn't proclaim it, least of all in her mind because then it would be there. Affirmed. Stated. Said. Said, done, and _believed_. She refused to consider it, think of it as a possibility, but it _was_ there, staring at her unblinkingly in the face. Perhaps Jet was **_dead_**. Deceased, exterminated, eradicated all one in the same, and this thought made her clamp her mouth shut and swallow the bile that mixed its way into her own blood. It was one of the most disgusting things that she ever had to do.

Noticing that she had ceased all action with her tongue he yanked her head up violently. She heard the stroke of match, and for a second, a millimeter of a moment she couldn't breathe. "Ms. Valentine," he sighed, it was sleek the flicker of winter's first frost. The fire light danced before her eyes happily, almost as if knowing the journey it was about to take. She was terrified of that brilliance, it was just a semblance of comfort, a quaint imposter that was just as beautiful as the man that knelt behind her. And just as deadly. Her previous wound was being stroked, almost tentatively, and she could feel his hard nail chillingly probing and pressing harder, she sucked in her breath. "If you vomit all over my floor," he continued as the heat led down her figure. She could actually feel her skin glowing from its radiant warmth. "You'll have to clean it all up."

And with that he pushed her back down, fully impaling her midsection with the burning splint. A cry left her lips but its full potential was unable to shine through as her mouth was forcefully made to take in the blood that was gleefully strangling any sound that she made, and it turned it into a gurgle. The liquid beneath her lips created a few small air bubbles, almost as if her mouth was making the fluid rejoice, and with each subtle pop more of the coppery taste exploded into her mouth. The metallic taste was overwhelming her, as if the droplets gave her a sense of her own death. The foreboding feeling crept about her warning her that she wouldn't live for much longer.

So Vicious continued, and her obedient tongue—that long stretch of pink muscle—was practically permanently shaded red. It was disgusting, the lingering after taste that sat placidly on her tongue, making her stomach churn in a silent revolution. She knew all of it was coming out as soon as Vicious gone, as soon as he was gone there was nothing, absolutely no mind formulated barricade that would keep her from exploding. And throughout it all she just felt so…_dirty_.

She was lying down now and he was straddling her pelvic region, what was he planning? He promised that if she devoured her own blood, like some cannibalistic creature she would be free from the degradation of her body, from further destruction of her spirit. But the promises of such a man seemed like a nonsense and like the blood on her back, or the bitter tears cascading down her cheek all the fight that her body had left just flowed away. She sighed resignedly, and she was too busy numbing her soul to even notice the long match, that could have resembled a drawing utensil, being struck. "Ms.Valentine don't you regret Spike not being here? I think he would have enjoyed it… Perhaps he would have saved you too." The grin on his face, was so unlike her beloved's own. And she wondered how two such opposite people could have been the best of friends. Vicious' previous comment registered itself somewhere in her mind. Perhaps they weren't that different, and in truth she could almost believe it. She could almost wrap her mind around the fact that Spike Spiegel thoroughly enjoyed torturing prisoners as much as Vicious did, sometimes she almost saw it, that indescribable need just burst and create an angry swirl. Almost.

"Yeah it's just too fucking bad that you killed him," she didn't know how she managed to find her voice, didn't know how she found such a sardonic tone, didn't know how sound managed to discharge from her mouth. Didn't know and didn't care, it was just one more thing that could fuel Vicious' attack towards her. Her life, after all was going to end in a few minutes. She was about to sell her soul to the devil, but not in the way she thought.

Heat poured down her face as a flicker of light made shadows and patterns across her uniform covered chest. Farther and farther down it drew. Her fear stirred at the pit of her sloshing stomach and flitted through her body, making every part of her stand its end, making her mind teeter on the brink of a hysterical insanity, making every inch of her suddenly overly aware, heightening her sensitivity. "Are you sure he sure he would have saved you?" The spark was hovering just above her navel, causing a little perspiration to accumulate there. Where was he going with the whole Spike issue, did he intend to use that against her too? Did he purpose in his mind to, while he was violating her in every way imaginable, make her memory flash to the green haired man repeatedly so that suddenly he was her problem and not Vicious himself? It was all too confusing, and she didn't want to try to understand it, but Vicious decided explain himself, "Are you sure!"

She nodded as he demanded an answer. Yes, she was sure because Jet would have made him go get her. Would have forced Spike to save her pretty little ass because Faye, however unimportant to Spike as she was, knew for a fact that Jet with all his motherliness cared for her at least an inch. Plus Spike—the man is…pardon me _was_, so goddamned predictable at times—would have come running at the even a whisper of Vicious' name.

"Because Ms. Valentine, Spike, is still alive." Her eyes widened, as the flesh carved a path into her skin. Branding her, but not so much making her his as much as making her everyone's. She was everyone in this now little syndicate's property, and if Spike dared to touch this woman, his hands would be broken, bone by bone in the cruelest way imaginable.

The smell of broiling flesh was a exhilarating scent to Vicious—bordering an aphrodisiac—and he inhaled deeply. He loved this part, where she was not just crying out from the pain, she was calling yearning, for someone to save her. He loved how the notion of hope had been dangled in front of her eyes, and yet she was there trapped underneath him struggling to attain it, but she would never break free. And it, or rather _he_ would never appear. He also particularly enjoyed how much of a disappointment Spike could be. Ah yes, he cherished it all.

"Come on Faye, scream for me," his voice nearly giggled. And Faye—her mind never overcome by darkness, instead presented with pristine, cruel white, the white of Vicious' fallen wings—complied, because that's all she could do.

Vicious thought it was the single most exquisite sound he had ever heard in his life.

**A/N: The voices in my head have decided that this could be more than a one-shot if you DO want more let me know and I'll write more. It's all for you people's and remember REVIEW! () waves bye now!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello everyone! Thanks for the wonderful reviews! see how happy you made me? I was floating off on cloud nine for a good three days, but my sister pried me back down. Now as to why it took me so long to post…um well…I have NO idea where I'm going with this story (my muse sorta died, I think she hates me). So if you REALLY want me to continue then review and tell me what you want to see. Well thanks …and ENJOY!**

**Chapter Two**

Vicious didn't want to give her up, really he didn't. He grinned at the thought and himself, sometimes he was such a child, but that didn't matter because he was being honest with himself, and most people rarely did or were that. The fact was he never grew out of toys they had just advanced from plastic and metal to flesh and blood. Everyone, whether they would like to admit it or not, was like that. Take Faye for example she had her vanity (which he had delightfully begun to destroy) which to him seemed like a higher form of dress up. Spike had his bounties and his targets which was just like playing the silly childhood games of cops and robbers, or G.I Joe. Honest and truly they were all the same, but of course all of this was irrelevant because despite what he felt or wanted to do he still would have to give his little toy up. It was just the way the process went he'd have something then Spike would have it next. It never ceased to amaze him how history, regardless how many times you try to change it, repeated itself.

You see when a human—no matter how bound they are—cries out for salvation they have to receive it. And we truly feel sorry for the not so dead god that has to take her in. But when that god sees its ultimate enemy, everything including the ownership of the poor human life becomes a game, just a insignificant battle of wits, because even though this god has them for now it doesn't mean that majestic Lucifer isn't waiting around the corner to tempt them. And what delicious temptation it is.

* * *

Jet didn't how the damn thing found him, but there it was, the old space shuttle hunkering down towards his ship requesting permission to land, it was an old version so they couldn't get a visual of the person inside but whether he liked it or not it was coming straight at him, and if he would not like to have to fix his ship once again then they might as well accept the stupid thing. He wondered vaguely as the ship docked with his who the hell would ride in such a ridiculous thing, and as soon as it connected with his, he had the returned Radical Edward to do a scan. You never know, and Jet was always the cautious type. Edward informed him that the object inside was a human being and that's all that seemed to be in there. So opening his hatch he peeked inside. Shit. It looked like they were about to become one big happy family again, Edward had since wandered back to this place and after a year Spike brought himself back from the dead. Sometimes Jet wondered if that man _could_ die.

And now the last piece of their little unit was with them, the vivacious Faye Valentine. She looked alright, just sleeping and he tried to shake her awake, but the woman was in a catatonic state. She didn't even move and Jet removed her suit hurriedly, he couldn't tell if she was breathing. Peeling the space suit away he noticed her torso first it was enveloped in white bandages that were stained red. Touching her back he pulled away the sticky red substance coating his hand. What happened to her? He thought he had gotten her a safe job, where she wouldn't be broken, where he was sure she would be safe. "Spike!" he called, he was going to need some help carrying her. Spike strolled in, as lethargic as a stretching cat, and an eyebrow shot up.

"Well, well look what we have here," he commented hands in his pockets, seemingly not fazed by the amount of blood that was seeping through to Jet's hands. But he _was_ worried, and that…that was aggravating. How the hell had she ended up like that? He threw the question aside he have time to ask that later. If she was still alive. '_Damn woman_,' he thought vexed, she always needed someone to come around and save her.

As gently as they could they carried her to the 'common room' and placed her on the longest couch available, then Spike sauntered off to get the medical kit. Jet screamed at him to move faster, but for the millionth time in his life Spike just played the role of a disobedient kid. His mind was yelling at him to move faster too, Spike however had every belief that Miss Poker Alice who was stretched out on the couch there, would live. He saw Ed and Ein bound away past him, and he marveled at all the energy those two possessed, truly amazing, they were like they eighth world wonder or something.

He returned just in time to hear them cry happily, "Faye-Faye has returned!" and then the child of whatever age looked closer, "Uh-oh Ein, Faye-Faye is in trouble…" picking up the dog she pawned him, a curious worry passing through her amber orbs. The morose sound of the words had Spike looking closely at the women before him, and he noticed that she was barely breathing. He was struck by a new sense of urgency. Pushing past the small crowd that consisted of the other occupants of the ship he took out a pair of scissors. He then carefully made an inch size cut into the gauze that looked like it was bleeding itself. She was losing so much blood…Placing the scissors down he placed his fingers on either side of his little incision, he realized they were shaking. Scowling he stilled the trembling digits and shredded the binding.

His stomach sloshed at the sight. Sure he had seen more blood than what was painted onto her back, but the fact that it was springing from there, just floating away carelessly running down her backside was just…well repulsive. He mumbled a fluent string of curses, and it almost sounded like a different language. Still murmuring he glanced up at the head of the ship, "Jet we have to get to a hospital," he stated calmly, Jet didn't move. You see as he was talking Spike had taken a wet cloth which had thankfully appeared magically (probably Jet's doing) and he was presently sopping away the crimson cells that were running away, Jet regrettably had seen what those cuts said, making him incapable of movement. "_Now Jet_!" he snapped, but Jet was stuck there staring at the one word that had been scratched into the vixens back. It was something that would endure forever, her capturer had made sure of that. "**Jet**!" he was screaming now, but then he turned his head down to his hands to see what the whole vessel seemed to be staring at. V-I-C-I-O-U-S. Fuck. The letters had been carved into the skin, like a man would carve there lovers name into a tree. Proud and proclaiming boldly everything that was felt outright. The only problem was Vicious didn't feel anything for anybody. He was inhuman, any human emotion that he showed was a mockery of the real thing. That man—if you could even call him _that_— had serious pathology problems.

Looking down at the skin that had fiercely, yet measuredly been sliced apart he knew he was going to hurl. Faye was just a tool, a message, informing Spike that not only was Vicious alive and well, but he knew Spike was alive too, and he also knew where he was residing. Spike just made his way to the bathroom, and he thought of Vicious' laugh, and all the screams he heard on countless occasions. Spike didn't even stay in the room long enough to find out what was on Faye's stomach. He couldn't have anyways, it would have been impossible—simply impossible—to do so.

Jet must have reacted eventually because suddenly the ship lurched and they were speeding off into the distance. His body slammed into the nearby wall and he nearly became a crumpled mass of human, a fleshy heap, on the floor. Instead he told himself to breathe, letting the easy command take over his body until that was his only function, just breathe. He couldn't think, his mind had turned into a mass of fuzzy nerve endings that refused to comprehend more one demand at a time, for fear that it would explode. _Don't think_. That was minimal enough to do, his mind wasn't prepared for a coherent thought, it would have become a tangled knot of nonsense. Jumbled, unarranged, and terribly confusing. Even the thought of not thinking was making his head hurt, it was expanding, with each throb growing bigger within its petty confines, until _BAM_! He would be happy if that happened, undeniably contented. But no he couldn't have that because Jet wouldn't have been too pleased so he gave himself another order, slowly, sluggishly.

_Go get some aspirin, have a cigarette, calm down_. Yes that would be nice: calm, peace, relaxation, _languidity_. It would all be so wonderful when he found it, he could imagine it now, it could possibly even measure up to the time he spent with Julia. Julia…Vicious…Faye…_Vicious_. Jesus Christ would that man ever leave him the fuck alone? Okay sure he had loved his girlfriend, and yes the lady had loved him back, but did that really mean that he had to try to kill him? Without the whole: I'm-leaving-the-syndicate part. Seriously, every sliver of a chance that Vicious got he would try to obliterate him. Then again he was the one who always came a-calling, maybe it was his fault as much as Vicious'. He bloody didn't care whichever it went, and then he pictured Faye, body cut at different angles to make that single word, that goddamned name that Spike knew eventually would be the death of him. He wondered gravely if…

_Ignore it_. Yet another order that he would blindly follow until he had retrieved some normalcy, when his world became normal again. What was normal for him anyways, hell what _was_ _normal_? _Ignore it_. The command came again and he decided to comply this time, it was to early to even consider a question like that, his mind wasn't yet operating properly. He passed the common room, and Faye's body was still there. Barely alive. He wished she would get up, act immature, become _herself_. Either that or leave, disappear, making this a crazy nightmare, and then Jet would just storm in and wake him up for one thing or another. Yes that's what it was an illusion, some hallucination, created purely from his imagination. See what the lack of protein did to you? He'd have to make a complaint to Jet. He started willing her away, willing her awake, willing her to do something. It didn't work. He pinched himself, nails digging into his skin, tearing through the tissue. He spurted blood and all and nothing happened. _Keep moving_. He obeyed, and what a rare occurrence that was.

_Pull out a cup_, where were the cups again? For the life of him he couldn't remember, '_Where are the cups?_' _In the cupboard._ The piece of whatever—he didn't even begin to want to know—that made up the ships cupboards opened displaying a variety of generally round mugs, taking out a cup he seemed at a loss of what to do. _Fill it with water, go into the bathroom take out the aspirin from the medicine cabinet, remove two and swallow them with the water_. His brain followed this all with a slow pace, as if there was wall, some impassible force which fed it through to him gradually, trickle by trickle, as if it was afraid that too much at one time would have him passing out. The actions were carried out though deliberately, because without a step by step act he might have been lost, confused, he would have been _disoriented_ in the surreal events that became reality.

_Smoke_. The cigarette was and lit in twenty seconds and despite the slight tremble in his hands he seemed to be doing better. The acrid taste of smoke glided against his tongue, and leaked into his lungs, as he blew as much as he could out. His mind seemed to be comforted then; the smoke clouded his mind's eye to all the problems that were beginning to swirl around him. It was just Spike and his cigarette. All was quaint and as perfect as it could be. Suddenly he heard a crackle of a voice, it resounded around his head but he chose to ignore it, it just melted into the excellence. The thudding of feet, the knocking of one's door, the yelling, it all became some elusive background noise. Sleep is what he wanted, he just wanted to sleep the day away, maybe things would improve if he went to off to la-la land. "Spike!" Maybe not…

—————————————————————————————————————

Faye awoke to gloominess, to white speckled tiles, and to black. The sky wasn't thundering but it looked like it had been threatening the outside occupants with such a thing all day, of course since she couldn't _see_ the sky she was only speculating. What time was it? Where was she? How the hell did she end up here? The last thing she remembered was the immense pain she endured when Vicious had decided it would have been interesting if he was going to commence in the modernized method of branding people, she liked the medieval technique better though, it looked like it hurt a lot less.

That was weird, now wasn't it? She was no longer in Vicious' evil layer (as she liked to think of it, even though it is a bit clichéd) and the throbbing in her side had completely numbed itself, plus there was only a slight twinge in her back. Maybe Vicious had taken her to some hospital secretly owned by the syndicate—or what was left of it, since Spike had pretty much demolished the whole thing—and now she was being fixed up for round three of torture…or maybe it was round two…for whatever round of pain Vicious had in store for her. Then again maybe he didn't separate his torture habits in rounds maybe they were sessions. It didn't really matter for anything all she knew was that she had to find a way out of bed, and out of the hospital. The door opened and light poured through. Cruel light, the light of florescent bulbs, the light of antiseptic places, the type of lights that Vicious had in his prisons. The click of shoes was heard, they sounded like Vicious', the pants looked black, sharp, and clean, they were definitely Vicious'.

She didn't know when it was, but she had somehow memorized all that was Vicious, he was constantly there in the back of her mind: his clothes, the way he walked with a slight swagger, his voice, his laugh, his touch, his _breathing_, all of which belonged to the man who had just entered this room. The finger gliding down her back belonged to Vicious it was soft and cold, and if it wasn't for the drugs that she suspected she was on that touch would have hurt. She could feel his fingers run over the stitching that held together the folds of skin that he had split apart. By his breathing she could tell that was fantasizing about opening them back up. Sick bastard. At least he didn't grope her, it was extremely peculiar really that that man still held even a bit of chivalry, and although he scared the shit out of her, she had to respect him for that.

His fingers were tracing another part of her now, the back of her neck up around her ear. The ear he was breathing in. He liked to do that she realized, it made her react because of the proximity, it notified her that no matter how far she would run whenever he wanted her for some reason or another, he would be right there, a ghost of her shadow. He liked having her stand on edge, knowing that even though he wasn't around she was constantly aware of how close he could have been. He was haunting her, always with her; he was nearer than she first thought. "I enjoyed your last visit Ms.Valentine; you'll have to come again." He was still circling around that spot and she was sure that he was mapping out his next line of business, as anxious as a child on Christmas morning about to open his gifts.

"I'll scream if you don't leave me alone," she warned him weakly, then she thought about it, what good would that do if he practically owned this place? It was a rhetorical question but she answered it nonetheless. And the answer made her even more frightened. He could kill her right then and there and no one would know, no one would care, because Jet was probably dead.

"Really…I'd love that," whispered and his hushed words filled her mind. His music making tendencies were shining through again. A wayward hand had found its way to branding burn marks on her stomach, the ruffle of starched hospital cloth touching pale skin echoed through the room, the drugs they gave her made it sound louder that it truly was. Sighing in a sort of disgusting (at least to Faye) contentment, he began reminiscing. Then suddenly he was gone, it happened so abruptly, in a simple blink of her eye, that Faye was left to wonder wether he was there or not. But she could still feel it, his prolonging presence that she could never seem to evade; perhaps it was only a nightmarish daydream that her mind had concocted out of its newly fearful state. She only wished she was so lucky…

Time passed, she wastransported sometime during sleep to another room. The door opened again, Faye shut her eyes tight, as if she could will away the person who would be most likely to enter her room other than her doctor, because like a child she had a Boogie Man, except he had a name and a face. The shoes didn't sound the same though, it was too heavy, it carried a bulk it was familiar, and so she opened her eyes to tiny slits, the breathing was different it wasn't quiet or chilling, it was gruff, comforting, and she recognized it. The body plunked itself down in the chair in front of her, the boots were silver. She associated them with something…someone. Blue pants were stuffed into said boots with all the grace and care a man could possibly carry, which wasn't much. She moved higher, '_Please_,' she begged someone, '_please let it be him_.' The prosthetic arm was all she needed, her grin just kept getting wider and wider, and even though she couldn't see any farther than that arm, she was assured by the voice. "Faye…Hey Faye you okay?" rough and fatherly was the sound, she was never so happy to see Jet Black in her life.

"Okay? You're alive! I'm damn near ecstatic!" she told him brightly, bubbly. He laughed, what a wonderful sound. It was so friggin' wonderful to hear a friends voice, it was like he was resurrected, brought back from the dead. It was just so friggin' wonderful, she was glowing she knew it, she could feel herself radiate.

"You thought I was dead?" he asked still chuckling slightly. It was nice to know she worried every once in a while, but him dead? Maybe she needed a psychiatrist as well as a doctor. The thought made the dying laughter bubble back up.

"Yes I did, and why are you laughing you should feel grateful that I actually care once in a while. With you being such a worrier about _every little thing_, I thought you would have contacted me on that stupid communicator a while ago!" She yelled, but it was good naturedly, he was right to laugh Jet could take care of himself, if he was in trouble he would always call. She cracked a smile again and giggled. She was happy now, maybe it was the drugs, or maybe it was the first time since the ordeal with Vicious that she felt safe. Safe and protected and at home. Yes even though she hated to admit it but Jet felt like home, like the good old days, like way-back-when, like the first hints of spring after a long harsh winter. He was strangely refreshing. He stayed for ten minutes more, and they chit-chatted about nothing really, just enjoying each others company. It was one of the most enjoyable times Faye had since Spike had ridden off into the wind, in true old-fashioned western style, attempting to play the conquering hero. Then before the conversation could take a nose-dive into depression, the doctor came along and shooed Jet out. Saying that visiting hours were over and she had to rest.

For the first night in a long time Faye felt, not happy, but oddly content. Things may turn out okay…as soon as they got rid of Vicious.

——————————————————————————————————————

He was avoiding her. Avoiding the hospital, avoiding most human contact with the yellow couch, avoiding human contact period. Okay maybe not fully, it was just that his mind had decided to push away any discussion about her, any thoughts about her, or anything related to her. Even though Jet came in from the hospital every day and talked freely how good she was starting to do with Ed (he was amazed when he realized that the girl could turn any of her crazy thoughts into at least one coherent sentence, much less two) he refused to listen. He'd either zone out, watch T.V, practice some martial arts, or sleep. And brood. He'd been doing that a lot lately, that damn habit that always came when he was in a foul mood over anything. Oh it didn't _look_ like he was doing anything of the sort to the other crew members (they thought he was sleeping), but that's exactly what was taking place.

He would sit on that yellow couch, taking in her scent—which had soaked into the fabric—and brood…about her and about Julia; because there are some things in life you can't escape.

He didn't know why, maybe it's because he felt bad for her. Dealing with Vicious is something no woman, no matter how annoying she was, should never have to go through. Sure the guy had been his closest companion for a long time but that didn't mean he didn't know what an ass he was to his prisoners. He thought about her back, and about the branding she received on her stomach, those things were going to leave scars and she was going to be more than pissed. So maybe more than an ass. Well wasn't that the understatement of the year? Because he knew, that Vicious flirted with insanity. Along the way something had disjointed, he had discarded all feeling, and humanity had been cast away. He let the wind blow it into non-existence, something Spike hadn't been able to do.

He didn't know if he was proud or disappointed because of that, and even though he attempted to hide his somewhat annoying emotions under the pretense of utter and complete cool, he knew that they were there. Broiling, stirring, threatening to burst. Lucky for him he had more restraint than most men (hey you don't walk away from the syndicate with nothing), and when he didn't it came out and was poured into the ship, his martial arts, or the bounties he chased. He hadn't gone after on in a while come to think of it; the last one he caught was last week sometime…

"Spike, come on out," Jet called through the door. Ignoring the voice Spike reached over a grabbed a pack of paper rolled sticks, each individually packed with nicotine, nail polish remover, tar, and other shit that he really couldn't remember. They didn't put the ingredients of a smoke on the back of the package. Grabbing his silver lighter he flicked the cap open. A tiny flame appeared in front of him, burning the tip of the cigarette, and he sucked in. Deep, thick smoke poured into him, and his mind instantly became at ease. "Spike, get your ass out here, dinner's ready," Jet proclaimed a little more angrily, at least he wasn't yelling. Spike, sighing and swinging his sweat covered pants over the edge of the bed, opened the door. He was greeted by the utterly effervescent Faye Valentine, and boy-oh-boy she didn't look too happy to see him.

* * *

When Jet told her that Spike was still alive, she wasn't the tiniest bit surprised, because she had already been informed by Vicious, but when she hear that he was back on the ship with Jet she wasn't happy. Actually she was pretty upset, that's if you call _upset_ having her throw a tantrum (as well as some random items), and threatening Jet that when she saw that "Fucking Bastard" she was going to make sure that, no one knew his insides from his outward parts. Basically she was going to kill him, then feed him to Vicious. He deserved every ounce of pain he was going to receive, and even though Jet warned her that even though her stitches were out her back was still tender and he didn't want to carry her back to the hospital because she and Spike were "rough-housing". Yeah "rough-housing", whatever _that_ meant. If it wasn't a synonym for manslaughter it couldn't even be applied to what Mr. Spike Spiegel was going to go through.

Finding out that Ed and Ein were back calmed her down however. Despite how odd she and that dog were, and no matter how pestering and strange how high their energy levels were, Faye had to admit that she did miss them. Maybe not so much the dog, but Edward, the weird little being that had always found herself entertained or fascinated or _something_. Besides women always had to stick together.

Then Jet asked her if she remembered what happened to her. She nodded but notified immediately that she didn't want to talk about it. She had nightmares about that man, about how many times he would finish her off then bring her back for more. There were times when she was sure he had visited her, tell her things, describe to her things, and regardless of the time she could always hear his ringing voice, all the sounds he made, in her ears. Sometimes she was sure she had daydreamed his presence like the first time, then something would be out of place, something she remembered him moving, and it just verified that he was there, with her. He told her he thought she had a beautiful voice and he wanted to hear it again. He promised her that she would visit him again. In the shadows at night she could see him; his perverted essence consumed her mind. She didn't know if she was obsessed or terrified, but she believed it was a combination of both.

Moving from topic to topic, Jet finally asked her if she wanted to come back to Bebop, as if he didn't already know the answer. Nodding yes she grinned happily in excitement, then they arranged the day that they were going to get her things. She would resign from her job, ditch her dreary apartment, and head back to the only place she belonged since defrosting. She was going home. Of course, some household occupants would have to be removed, nothing she couldn't take care of…

* * *

The last time she saw this man he was walking away from her, and she was loving him. Looking at him she realized she still loved the stupid prick and that just made her seethe. Jet—the poor man—had long since disappeared in order to set the table and he would only come around when there was enough yelling to alert the next planet. She wouldn't give Spike the chance of even let out a word, before he would be laying on the floor.

He was in shock, yes that's it _shock_. There she was one of the few survivors of Vicious and instead of crumbling or crying, or proceeding in doing anything that was even vaguely close to blubbering she was glowering. At him, like he did something. What the hell was she mad about anyways? She should be glad that they were all a happy family again, and other sentimental stuff that he knew she cared about, even though she would have never openly professed stuff like that to him. He could see it in her, despite her barely there clothes, and her cold, okay bitchy, ways she was sentimental. It was guarded, hidden extremely well, but every once in while it showed through, because she was forced to grow up too fast. One minute you're enjoying college, and family, and friends, then you wake up in a world that's not your own and someone you trust betrays you, leaving behind a mass amount of debts to pay. It probably shouldn't have happened to her, she seemed like a nice kid, but it did and she dealt with it.

The problem was the last time he saw her, her little I'm-so-sexy-and-untouchable façade had deteriorated (in the slightest mind you), so he was expecting a little bit of warmth. You never get what you expect.

He was just staring down at her, _down_, as if she was some small ant that he could overlook or step on. Well sorry buddy, not today. Today Faye Valentine was going to beat the crap out Spike Spiegel and then she was going to kick back with a smooth cranberry and vodka twist while she relaxed in her bedroom or painted her toenails.

Plucking the precariously hanging cigarette from his perfectly sculpted mouth she placed it in her own. Why should he look so sexy with a cigarette practically falling out of his mouth, when she obviously could do a much better job? Plus the infamous "cancer stick" calmed her raging nerves which at the moment were that of red. She was going to execute the damned man, but first she had to get him out of his stupor. Sure she was pretty but she wanted him, and those beautiful atypical, chocolate orbs, to pay attention to her while she talked. Therefore the first line of business was a light but stinging smack to his cheek, which was backed up by nails.

"Dammit Faye what the hell was that for?" he complained. First she took away his cigarette and now she was slapping him. What was wrong with her? Hadn't she heard of _domestic violence_?

Blowing smoke in his agitated looking face—she loved it when he made that face, it made her melt into a big blob of Faye-goo—she began her rant, "Shut up and listen―"

"Don't tell me what to do Faye," he warned, she wouldn't like the results.

"I said shut the fuck up!" he didn't reply, and his expression had switched from mildly annoyed to bored. "Thank you. Now _you_ are going to be slaughtered by me after we finish this conversation, and wipe the bored expression off your face, I don't want to see it!" He gave her his trade mark smirk instead, and the urge to cuff his face roared through her. Swallowing it she decided that she'd save it for later. "I hate you," she stated, coolly now, even though the grin was still there she would endure it for now.

"Oh really, then why were you about to cry when―" a sharp slapped was placed on the back of his "fuzzy" green covered skull. His head bent with the slight push, verdure coloured orbs filled his vision. It was the first time he really noticed their colour.

"I said don't interrupt me," she sneered and was about to continue when Spike pointed out that she made no such statement, and was about to continue annoying her when she deftly kicked him in the shin, the pointed tip of her boot digging for his shin bone.

"Jesus Christ Faye what's gotten you so pissy I'm here aren't I?" he growled, he wanted to slap some sense into her purple head, but she was a girl, a woman, it went against his moral values. Cursed chivalry.

"That is exactly the problem. You see while you out enjoying being waited on hand and foot at whatever hospital, me and Jet were worried about you. We even went into a period of grief because we thought you were dead."

"Well, isn't that what's supposed to happen?" he drawled, enjoying the scowl on her face.

"Not over _you_. Anyways, I got depressed, he got depressed, hell this whole ship was goddamn depressing, so I left. Jet helped me get a job, and all was fine. Except for the fact that when you went on that suicidal "ride off into the sunset" trip like some action hero, you failed on your mission which was to kill Vicious. Men," she groaned, "they can't do anything right. And instead of killing me the bastard of a man left me alive so I could deliver his stupid message to you. And now since you _know_ he's alive, you're going to blow up a few things, and shoot things while you try to find him. Since I _know_ that you'll find him and you'll both kill each other, I've decided to kill you first, then hunt down Vicious and feed him to alligators, to keep all of this happening over again!" she huffed, very dramatically I might add, with clenched fist and the quick movement of hands. Spike was tempted to laugh at her and her feminine logic but he controlled himself, and reverted to smirking and nodding knowingly.

"Don't smile at me you shit head!" she yelled at him hand reaching out for his throat, and he just scooted out of the way. Fine, she couldn't strangle him to death she'd beat him to death. Wildly and without any concern of her physical state she started throwing things at him, abandoning any sense of decency or lady-like manners (who has time for those anyways?). An angry string of curses were fluently leaked into the air as Faye tried to hit him, to kick him, to _hurt_ him just like he hurt her. But she couldn't touch him, and even though she was pelting things ferociously at him, none of them seemed capable of impact.

"Would you stop it you crazy bitch?" he yelled at her while ducking a pack of cigarettes that were flung at his head. Maybe he should tell Jet, that he thought she should go back into that hospital to sedate her. Things, specifically _his_ things were a lot safer while she was locked up. He hoped for her sake something valuable wasn't broken, because he would screw manly honor and kill the insane little slut. His toe touched something sharp, broken glass, and his foot somewhat off balance continued to exert pressure on the jagged splinter. He could feel it embed it's way into his skin. He condemned the woman, because now he had to sweep up the fragments as well as take it out of himself. Sometimes he really did hate her.

She realized then how familiar this situation was, this was the exactly what happened with Vicious. She had thought then that if she had gotten in at least one hit, just one she would have been satisfied, she would have been delighted. But that one hit, could never be enough could it? Not enough to erase the markings on her back, or the way her heart had been shattered into a million pieces. One hit could never be enough to ease away the desperate need to see his face again, or the need to wash away the touch of his fingers, the smell of his breath, the utter frostiness that constantly lapped at the now tainted edges of her mind. One hit would never let her escape either of them; she suddenly felt a deep amount of sympathy for the now deceased Julia.

In mid throw of some other random albeit painful looking object she stopped, and she looked like she was about to pass out, either that or drop dead, it was an odd look for her to wear really, because she had so much energy (sometimes he wondered if Ed was a descendent of her's), but at this moment she seemed genuinely exhausted. Suddenly, for some reason he felt idiotic, sure she was irritating, but he didn't want her to _die _(it was thought about a couple time's how he could arrange her _accidental_ death). He felt the bizarre urge to ensure her life (at least for the time being), because in one way or another she had become a link to Julia, he didn't know how the ridiculous idea had formulated and planted itself in his mind but she had become a constant reminder that Julia was there like a post it note, watching him, just waiting for him…Waiting until Vicious killed him off and he could go join her, because that's all he truly wanted. He just wanted to see her, just revel her again and again, until he was filled with nothing but her. And Faye was the one who proudly displayed how he was going to get there, he needed her there to remind him about the things that his mind occasionally succeeded in blocking out. He gave her a wary glance, was it just him or was she teetering. "Maybe you should just sit down," he told her moving towards her. And he watched as she flinched.

Her now confused mind had distorted Spike's figure, his face and his individual aura had perverted itself, changing into Vicious, he was backing her against a wall. She was so scared of him—Vicious—that as he reached out to her she recoiled away. She could see him smile, that horribly glorious smile, she knew that that smile was tasting her blood, it was explaining to her how scrumptious it was. That smile made her want to vomit. One of those corrupted digits extended touching her arm, spreading its frosty heat throughout her veins, making her vulnerable, weak, _susceptible_. Vicious liked to destroy strong things, liked to break barriers, he liked to win. He was winning now, "D-don't touch me…" she whimpered she didn't have the strength today; there was nothing left for her to fight him with, there was no pizzazz, not even a hint of a feisty spirit. He hadn't given her enough time to regenerate, or rekindle. A knife had found its way behind her neck, tracing the same path that his fingers had taken the first day she woke up.

"Ms.Valentine I want you to sing for me," that demonic voice, deep, rumbling, whispering, was always in her head. It was her own personal private recording, and she abhorred it.

There was something wrong, she looked panicky, even worse than that, she looked _petrified_. And she was mumbling something, he couldn't really understand it because it had all been stirred into a thick mass murmurs that came out slurred and jerky. He looked at her, she was shivering was she cold? "Faye?" he called her name, but it didn't seem to reach her, it was lost in the air, and when it hit her eardrums, it was something new, something that made her quiver. She looked so lost, the emerald orbs were clouding over with disgust, she directed it at him, and he called her name again, "Faye!" louder, more insistent, demanding her attention.

She looked at him, the Vicious standing before her now was blurred, like someone had come along and merged both Spike and Vicious together. She tried to concentrate, but deciphering, and separating their unique forms seemed like an impossible task. It was giving her a headache. There was something pounding in the back of her mind, veining out through every nerve and it spread like an untamed fire throughout her entire body. Vicious…the knife… "_Faye_!" the voice snapped her mind back renewing her sense of time and place. It happened all too quickly, not letting her ease into the world, everything was brought into such an immense sharp focus. Spike was still moving towards her, she had to escape. Locking her insecure knees she turned and ran to her room. Something was blocking her airway passages, she couldn't breathe, there was an indescribable pain snaking through her, and she listened to herself pant. Trying to force air into her lungs. Weak hands grabbed a doorknob, the trembling appendages somehow managed to twist the fixture, and she with a sense of unusual hurriedness flung herself into the room.

It was dark, and every corner seemed to reverberate a word, a sound, a light wispy noise that reeked of Vicious' existence. It was smothering her, he was everywhere, she carried him wherever she went, she couldn't _breathe_. She needed to lie down, before she passed out, before she threw up, before…before… Sinking into the lone empty mattress, Faye cuddled up and attempted to sleep. It came, and visions of her torturer bounced along in her head.

—————————————————————————————————————

Visions of her ran in his mind. Goddammit she was seeping through him, becoming apart of him. She was hauntingly intoxicating. Then she began to fade, in and out and what was once there just evapourated, but it left something more resilient more enthralling, if that was even possible. His mind tried to describe her, but he didn't know where to start, she was just so different. _The boots_, yes that's it, that's where he'd start. The boots were pristine white, leather and worn. It was odd really but they held this immaculate look but it was strangely weathered, they knew more than they let on. Up to the legs, covered in thigh high's, or whatever woman wanted to call those things, it really didn't make a difference to him. But those legs they held a strange appeal, he usually like women covered, however with the practically sheer panty hose that left a slight tint, it drove him crazy. They looked smooth, glassy, like there was no friction and he knew that the material that was honoured by touching her skin had to be painted on. If it wasn't there was no way that they could logically stay put, she was so confusing it had him going insane.

Up past the legs were things he decided he wouldn't describe, he respected women in that way, and the people around him found it odd that despite the fact that he pleasure in the sounds of the screams that came from that prison, he couldn't bring himself to destroy her "dignity" by describing the parts which she'd rather keep covered. They just didn't understand that if she displayed it openly to the whole world by all means go into detail, but what he didn't see he couldn't "illustrate".

Next was the stomach, what a beautiful thing that was. Taut. Strong. Slim. And he nearly destroyed it. It made little electric thrills skirt down his spine, and his whole mind tingled at the memory. He could remembered as the skin, deep red, bubbled, blistered and hissed at him, at the match in his hand, those almost unnoticeable sounds, flirted dangerously with his control, and he nearly lost all restraint. But he wanted her back, wanted her to visit him again, to come calling for him. And he knew she would, he owned her now there was no way that she could say no, he loved that. He relished in it.

His mind's eye traveled up past her ribs, he would concentrate on those later, he liked them too, almost as much as he liked her stomach. A red sweater and yellow vinyl presented him. He delighted in what they covered, not that he'd ever actually admit anything so ridiculous to someone except himself, it was just that there was something about her that made him feel…_filthy_. Like he was some sort of pagan, a heathen. Sure there were others like her but she had caught his attention, she stood out, she was like one vibrant colour out in the middle of the mundane gray. It was so attractive.

Above that was her neck, the long expanse of skin that he had the crazy urge to wrap his fingers around. He wanted to sink his fingers into the plush skin, he wanted to feel her windpipe close. He wanted to feel her scream, and hiccup in fright, he'd time himself perfectly so just when she was about to slip into unconsciousness he'd release her. Then do it all over again. He didn't think he could ever grow tired of that. Of _her_.

All the way to her lips, lush painted crimson with blood, with her own blood. He was enchanted by the taste of it. Metallic and slippery as it ran down his throat. It was an aphrodisiac, no better than that, it was absolute euphoria. They were voluptuous pieces of skin that he had the constant need to place against his own, those things were so utterly delectable that from time to time he found himself getting lost in them, in dreams about them, about how his teeth would gnaw them apart. He told her that in one of his visits to the hospital, she shivered out of what he was sure was fear. He could smell its aroma sift through the oxygen in the air and make its way through his nostrils. Her fear was his own personal high. Past the pliant pouting folds, around the smooth jaw line that he wanted to break, nose he wanted to temporarily disfigure just to hear the satisfying crack, to her eyes. He didn't exactly know what he wanted to do with them, they were just so captivating. He wanted to remove them, to keep them right on his dresser so when he woke up every morning, there they were staring back at him with that look that she carried. But he couldn't stand the thought of her eyeless, envisioning them wasn't as good as the real thing, it was something he had learned through past mistakes. You see because only she could express the pooling devilishly green hatred that she had for him. Only she could show such a what-you-see-is-what-you-get attitude and still hide all that was held inside. Only she could expose herself and no one would see right through her like he did. It was all in her eyes behind the wall of sexual indifference and know-how lied something that elated him beyond belief. It was the unmistakable innocence that she possessed, she had the eyes of a masochist. It made her undeniably perfect.

Behind the eyes and over the shoulders was his favourite part. Her back, clean, pure, _unblemished_, and it was ripe for the picking. God, it drove him wild. He just _had_ to carve his name into it, to see the creamy skin peel away, he wanted to see what she hid underneath it all. His undoable curiosity drove to it, and he knew he would never regret it. That silky patch of skin was just _begging_ to be _vandalized_, it was all but _itching_ to be totally _violated_. He had done all he could to oblige, he was always happy to. The back and the sounds that accompanied it were just so…so…_rousing_ that if he hadn't been so intent on keeping her alive he was unsure what he would have done. On her next visit though he'd make sure to let his tiny blade (and all the other small but much more painful objects that he had lying around) ravage her back. He wanted to watch as the fire from his match lavishly lick its way up the skin that covered her spine, he wanted to run his fingers through her wounds like one would weave fingers through hair.

His whole body groaned, _yearned_ to hear her cry out in pain. It was an inspiring sound, a sound that made him want to strip her apart, he took in shuddering breath from his fantasy and attempted to calm himself down. And that purple hair of her's, he couldn't even begin to think what he wanted to do with _that_. Faye Valentine…well shit, he had never been so obsessed with a "torturee" in all his life.

Rolling over the very frustrated Vicious decided on one thought. He needed to kill something; it made his body feel a whole lot better.

**Do remember my glorious readers, REVIEW and tell me what you want, and thanks for everything! JA !**


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